How do you deliver supplies to diamond mines at the top of the world? You drive 20 hours across permafrost and frozen lakes.

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But at the northern end of many of the lakes, Smith points to blowout after blowout. Jagged pieces of ice as big as refrigerators stand at crazy angles, and in one of the blowouts I can see open water as black as our raven friend's eyes. Smith notices the look on my face. "It's not that scary," he says. "The water's about three-feet deep there. Barely get our socks wet."

The truckers know that gray or white ice is weak. Blue or black ice is strong. But they don't really have to worry about it, because the thickness is constantly measured by "radar profilers" who use what Smith calls "glorified fish finders." Nonetheless, the occasional rig still falls through. The trucks thus travel in convoys of three, so there's always someone who can radio for help. To avoid stressing the ice unnecessarily, the trucks maintain a half-kilometer of separation. Each truck emits a long, eerie exhaust contrail and kicks up snow so fine it resembles baking soda. For the duration of our trip, I catch a glimpse of our lead truck only twice, which is fine by me, because that particular behemoth is hauling tandem tankers full of ammonium nitrate—what the miners will use to blow giant holes in the diamond-bearing kimberlite.

"Truth is, I don't worry about the ice bustin'," Smith asserts. "Even if it happens, it's usually just one axle that goes in. So you call one of the winch trucks that are always cruising somewhere out here, and they'll come pull you out. Anyway, we're haulin' diesel today. Diesel's lighter than water. We'd float," he jokes.

Which isn't to say he's fearless. All the drivers are leery of aptly named Waite Lake, where Smith points to pylons atop a patch of ice that looks like freshly poured cement. "Truck broke through there a couple days ago," he says. "Waited seven hours to yank him out."